Back through the batter of time
Back through the batter
of a time that cracked like a cracked egg
around then, around then…

Back through the batter of time
whisked through white clouds
that bubble to the surface
when a boiled egg breaks in a pan
around then, around then,
in a pan, in a pan

Back through the batter of time,
Time beaten like an egg
Time battered in a pan
Time whisked like a mixture
of time and an egg

around then, around then
in a pan, in a pan,
time and an egg
time and an egg…

Early people
in the swamp that was Brawby
in the early days

looking from their houses
to the pond that was Bob’s
or as we called him then: Bubb
or as we called him then: Bubb

or as we called it then: lake
or as we called it then: lake

Bubb’s Lake in a storm,
the most wonderful sight
lightening jewelling the surface
thunder visible in the darkness
waves rising like egg-white
waves falling like egg-yoke
thunder crackling like an egg shell

Bubb’s Lake like a bowl
in which batter was battered
as the storm reached its height
as the storm climbed its height
for day after day
the storm walked along its height…

And in the middle of Bubb’s Lake
was the island
now gone
you won’t see it in Bob’s Pond,
but Bubb’s Lake had an island
which the people called Sacred
which the people called sacred

and the island had a temple,
a small wooden temple
with a sloping roof, and small windows,

“Soon it’ll be like Woodstock: people will pretend they were there – people will want to say, ‘I was there when it all started’” Independent On Sunday.

“Certain men are notorious for what they get up to in their sheds. Simon Thackray runs an arts centre in his. For the past 19 years, The Shed, near the market town of Malton, has been responsible for some of the smallest and most inspired art events in the country.” Alfred Hickling Guardian